Employee Relations, Friendly Workplace and Team Building
by Rosslyn
Summary: Employee Relations, Friendly Workplace and Team Building: A Guide to Successful Relationships in the MI6 - Because even MI6 isn't exempt from British administrative features and its assorted exercises. Where health and safety comes to MI6 and Q just wants to blow things up.


"They are rather persistent about this," is what Q says after receiving the twelfth email in the week, with red capitalised 24pt font headlines that says _Employee Relations, Friendly Workplace and Team Building: A One Day Symposium — Compulsory Attendance for All._

"Can we remotely wipe the calendar invites so we can pretend we never got them?" One of his minions asks, and Q has to admit, he is tempted.

"They can't _really_ mean compulsory attendance for all though," Q says distractedly as he opens the email in the bottom right corner of his screen, while keeping an eye on 003's tracker on the map. "Some of us have actual things to do."

"It says M will be there," R says, arching and reading over his shoulder while carefully keeping a soldering iron above Q's head.

"Mmm, I can just see his face now," Q says absentmindedly. "He probably had to sign off on this as well. Speaking of, who's running this? Not HR?"

"God no. Some government overseeing committee with a long and ridiculous acronym. Independent advisory body to ensure the harmony of the workplace or something like that."

Q sighs. "They never learn, do they?"

"Oh look, they've really done it this time. It says here: Field Agents not on active duty, including the Double-O section, are also required to attend."

Q barks a laugh, and R hastily swerves the iron just in time to avoid his bobbing mop of hair. "No wonder there was a flurry of activity outside M's office in the past few days — Moneypenny says they are all desperate to be sent to remote corners of the world, the harder to extract the better."

R hums.

"007 is in town, isn't he?"

Q finally looks up. "I thought he got sent to Malta?"

"No, Alec wrangled it from him. Something to do with a bet they made in the shooting range ten years ago and how it's finally time to call it in."

"Alec cashed in his rainy day favour for this?" Q says, eyebrow rising. "It can't be that bad, can it?"

R stares at him.

"Well I went to induction," Q says. "That wasn't bad."

"That's because M personally inducted you," R says. "It took what, fifteen seconds?"

"Five, actually. All she said was 'don't cock this up'." Q watches 003's marker overlap with the hotel safezone and pulls up the email to half screen. "Brevity is the soul of efficiency and all that."

"Words to live by."

Q scrolls the email to the bottom and squints. "Ah, bollocks. It says that all departmental heads have to attend or their annual budget won't get approved. Can they do that?"

R finally sets down the iron and pats Q on the shoulder. "If they can make the Double Os take lessons in health and safety," she says ominously, "They can do whatever the fuck they want."

* * *

On the day of the Symposium, Q arrives at work to find little signs posted on the doors and along the corridors directing them to the auditorium. There is even a person dressed in a cheerful Hawaiian shirt with a pink tie and a level 3 security clearance waving people through: 'this way, this way'.

Halfway through being ushered to the auditorium, Q checks his phone and realises over half of his minions have gone dark — sudden server failures in their neighbourhoods, flash floods in power stations, a dehabilitating accident with a toaster, topped off with an apology from R saying how 'bummed' she is she's going to miss this 'wonderful event'.

"Bugger," Q mutters as he tries to get comfortable in the red cushion seat. The auditorium is vast — an impressive stage more suited to opera than anything else, but somehow this makes him feel distinctly like an undergrad again, which is why he is sitting near the back.

"This really gives visual representation to bureaucracy as the iron cage," says an amused voice very close to his shoulder. The cologne that wafts into his nose is warm and familiar, distractingly welcome.

Q sighs through his nose. "Bond."

"And a very good morning to you too, Q," Bond says pleasantly, claiming the seat next to his with all the grace of someone actually coming to see an opera.

Q eyes the surroundings and realises with mixed feelings that he doesn't recognise most of the faces that are here, not to mention a significantly less number turned up than the actual employee roster of MI6. This means some people — most people that he know, in fact — are smart enough to actually think of ways to duck out from the day.

"Well if the almighty 007 couldn't get out of employee performance development days, I think we are all doomed from the start", he says half heartedly.

Bond hums. "I was on my way out until I saw you were on your way in," he says.

Q finally looks at him, all sarcastic. "Awww, you stayed just for me? That's so touching."

"Somebody needs to keep you inline," Bond smiles beatifically.

Q's eyebrow jumps. "Keep _me_ inline?" he says, just as someone walks on stage and taps a microphone.

"Welcome, spies, heroes and international peace-keepers!" the man booms.

"Oh god," Q groans.

Bond gives him a look that says 'what did I say'.

"Now before we get started," the presenter continues, "I would like to suggest that you turn your phones off." A pause, during which he grins a little too widely for Q's comfort, "Not one, not two, but _all of them_."

A few interns and minions shuffle, but most people make no move and instead just all stare back flatly. Bond shifts a bit further into his seat, clearly trying to get comfortable with the show.

The presenter claps his hands and shrugs. "Well, I knew _asking_ wasn't gonna get me anywhere, so I bought this little baby."

He pulls out a small radio from his pocket, and Q honest to god gasps.

"That little twit!" he says, leaning forward to get a close look.

"What is it?" Bond asks, rather lazily and without a care in the world, but Q is almost seeing red.

"A security breach in Q branch, that's what it is!" He mutters furiously and quickly begins to tap away on his phone. "I can't believe — "

"This little thing, I've been told," the presenter says, waving the radio joyously, "is the latest invention from your famous Q branch."

A few people crane their necks towards Q's direction, but hastily turn back after meeting Bond's stare. Q is obliviously to it all, of course, fingers flying fast over his phone's keyboard.

"Dammit, he's got the one that has the failsafe built in — "

"It looks like a radio," the presenter plows on. "But it does _so much more damage_."

Bond leans sideways. "Does it explode?"

"Shut up, 007, I'm trying to save us here," Q says, frowning furiously.

Bond blinks at him. "Well, I've been told he's got the right security clearance," he says slowly. "If you think that's a mistake, I can easily rectify that."

Q doesn't answer, but at this precise moment, Tanner walks past and whispers in Bond's ear: "As much as M would like you to, please don't shoot the government representative on stage. He's not a hostile."

Bond slides his eyes over to Tanner and his hilariously bulging folder. "Is M planning to get productive today?"

"You have no idea," Tanner replies.

Bond points to the presenter on stage, who's still waving the radio smugly, in a vague form of show-off slash threat, except achieving neither. "He's one of us?"

Tanner straightens and a muscle near his nose twitches. "I wouldn't go that far."

Just in time, Q curses. "Jesus," he says, waving his phone like a mad person in front of him.

"What are you doing?" Bond says, vaguely amused. "Is this some sort of ritual Q branch does to ward off evil?"

Q gives him the stink eye. "No, you ancient monument. The signal is crap down here. Waving your phone in this pattern cuts through the — never mind," he says, returning to his screen with ferocity.

"Did you just call me a monument?" Bond asks.

"Yes, a visual representation of MI6's standing values and exercise in bad judgement," Q says eloquently. "Come on, come on…"

"Your insults are getting more creative every day," Bond observes.

"Thank you," Q allows graciously. "I'm in the building's central control now. I just need to…"

"Press this little button!" The presenter announces cheerfully, and does a dramatic show of doing so. Next to Bond, Q curses under his breath, lets his phone fall to the floor, and covers his eyes. "And it jams electronic signals in the 1km radius."

There's a flurry of activity, and a few more muttered curses, sighs, groans as people check their phones, tablets, computers and smart watches to confirm that yes, all signal has been cut. A few more twist their necks towards Q's direction this time — and turn their stink eye onto the stage after that.

Still covering his eyes, Q lifts two fingers and pinches them close. "I was _this_ close," he says, full of regret.

Bond can't help but smirk a little at this, just a little. "Outsmarted by your own creation. Now that's something worth seeing."

"You are having bubble guns that sing nothing but Justin Bieber for your next mission," Q tells him huffily. "Let's see how you outsmart that."

"I can think about thirty two different ways just off the top of my head," Bond says, and he does that thing where he smiles and his eyes crinkle in the corner, and damn if that isn't distractingly handsome.

Of course, that is when the presenter chooses to hone in on them.

"Hey you two!" the guy yells, pointing directly at the back. His expression has such an odd intensity that Q is sure if he had control of the ceiling spotlight, he would have shone it on them. "Care to share with the rest of the class?"

Q puts his hands in his laps and puts on a beatific expression. "I need to blow something up," he says between gritted teeth and a fake smile.

Bond clears his throat and sits up. "Bubble guns," he announces.

Q turns and stares at him incredulously.

"Come again?" the presenter says, grin a little strained now.

"Bubble guns," Bond enunciates. "That sing Justin Bieber. Something Q branch is working on." Slouching back into the seat with the grace of a mountain lion, he looks at Q with perverse contentment. "I think it's a rather good idea, actually."

Somewhere in the auditorium, someone is slow clapping. Q makes a mental note to record the sound and analyse it later so he can sign them up for every telemarketer offer there is. Thankfully, the presenter is no longer honed in on them; whether he realised who Q and Bond are, Q cannot be certain.

"Just so you know," Q murmurs, casually and slowly sliding down to the floor to retrieve his phone, "It's not going to be a bubble gun now. It's going to be a gun made out of _bubblegum_."

Bond makes an obnoxious popping noise with his lips that also sounds incredibly inappropriately like a kiss, and Q can't help but flushes on his way back up.

"I hate you," he says a little desperately.

"You say the sweetest things," Bond winks.

"I would file a report about sexual harassment but it'd be so far behind in the queue with all the rest I don't think there is point."

"Well then." Bond says amicably, "If this isn't consent I don't know what is."

Q hides a hysterical hiccup in his fist and Bond caringly massages his back, ending only to slowly and feather lightly brush his neck.

"Am I your distraction?" Q says, eyes wide, stretching out the syllables in the _-action._

"Distraction works both ways," Bond says. He pronounces distraction as if it's synonymous with trust.

On the stage, the presenter is going on about the importance of review and development for morale, efficiency and accountability, and Q nods very, very slowly.

"I think I might be able to create a minor explosion with my phone," he says finally.

Bond grins, sharp and heady. "I knew I liked you for a reason."

* * *

Operation Explosive Diversion gets derailed fifteen minutes later, when both Bond and Q gets honest to god called on stage. The presenter is so unflustered that he is either combat trained in the Falklands or just completely oblivious —

"Your name?" The presenter asks cheerfully, looking at Bond.

— Definitely oblivious, Q thinks, which is probably for the best, all things considered.

"Bond," Bond pauses for effect. "James Bond."

From where Q is standing, he can see M and Tanner sitting in the front row, wearing identical stoic expressions. There's a muscle ticking in M's jaw, and a desperate look in Tanner's eye that says 'I can see the Titanic heading towards an ice berg but I can't stop it also where is Moneypenny when you need her'. Or maybe Q is projecting - he's not sure of anything at this point.

"Mr. Bond," the presenter declares. He then, to Q's amusement and vague horror, circles and sizes Bond up. "You look like you work out."

Bond's lip twitches. "Occasionally," he agrees.

"Mmmm. You have a strong body."

Q wants to plunge something into his eye.

"Tell me!" The presenter straightens and declares with a flourish to the audience, "Do you often have back injuries?"

Bond's eye glints. "Among other things," he murmurs demurely.

"Ah," the presenter says, triumphant. "You must be doing manual handling wrong."

Q watches helplessly as Bond feigns interest. "How so?"

The presenter tuts. "Now normally we have empty cardboard boxes for these kind of stuff," he says. "But since this is an unorthodox organisation —" he pauses, waiting for what Q doesn't know, because the audience just met him with stony silence — "Chances are you guys don't often have to lift heavy boxes in your line of work."

Another pause.

"Is he trying to be funny?" Bond murmurs.

"I don't know I'm feeling a bit suicidal I don't think he's doing it right," Q says desperately.

"Haha!" The presenter fills in the gap, which solves that mystery but only makes Q feel more detached from reality. "So I thought it would be more helpful to show you scenarios that is actually _likely_ to occur in your line of work. Mr. Bond!"

Bond lifts a well meaning, polite eyebrow.

"Now. Let's say you have to _carry_ this gentleman here." The presenter points to Q, and Q instantly panics.

"Me?" Q says, reeling back three steps. "Wait, I'm only here for moral support?" The end of his sentence lifts up hopelessly into both a question and a plea, and Bond's eye is glinting so dangerously now, fuck.

" _Let's_ say you have to carry this gentleman here," The presenter plows on, ignoring Q's protests completely. "How would you do it?"

"Well that depends," Bond says, smooth and suave and with an honest to god wink at the audience. "Am I getting him out of a building that's about to explode, or am I getting him into bed?"

A whimper escapes from the back of Q's throat and all he can think about is how he _must_ invent something that can cause retrograde amnesia, because oh god. _This_ is going to be the mortifying end to his career in espionage.

The presenter looks briefly derailed, but recovers quickly, and he says: "Why don't you show us both?"

" _No_ ," Q says, as Bond sweeps him up in a bridal carry.

Intensive bout of shuffling in the audience and loud camera shutter sound everywhere — Q is so going to have to send a virus around to the cloud server later, _and_ ruin all their credit history —

"Been wanting to do this for ages," Bond murmurs, breathing into Q's neck and inhaling, and he looks up and smiles and Q desperately thinks about the Queen.

"I swear to god, Bond, I will make your life so hard — "

"Or this," Bond declares and suddenly Q's world goes on a sideway spin upside down and he finds himself being holstered over Bond's shoulder in a fireman's carry.

" _So hard_ , " Q grits.

"Mmmm. I know. Later, darling."

Q wants to bite and kick and maybe play a little dirty but he knows better than to put on a show for the audience, so he hangs limp and pretends to be unconscious.

"Excellent, excellent," the presenter says, delighted. "Impressive show of strength and agility. The first to bed and second to safety, I take it?"

"Just the reverse, actually," Bond says, pleasant and not a care in the world. "Sometimes they bite."

"Hmmm." The presenter looks between the two of them, eyebrows furrowed. "And you two are…?"

"Friends," Bond says, as Q bites out, "Colleagues".

"I see," the presenter says slowly. "Well, no matter. We'll deal with this later. You can go back to your seats now. Let's give a round of applause to our volunteers!"

Q glares at the audience so hard that those few who raised their hands hastily put them down. After a brief pause, a single, slow set of clapping sound emits from the front row.

"Fuck my life," Q says, as he fumes past a stoically clapping M, with Bond in tow.

* * *

"I need copious amounts of tea," Q complains. "Isn't there always tea in things like this? I need at least ten gallons."

On the stage, the presenter is enthusiastically demonstrating the right way to lift something heavy — 'from the leg, not the back', with wriggling for effect. And because he's a sneaky bastard like that, Bond silently pulls out a flask and offers it to him.

"Oh look," Q says. "Why am I not surprised?" He snatches the flask and takes a long swig out of it. "Everyone came prepared. I think R tried to warn me about this at some point, but I didn't listen. Why didn't I listen?"

"Q," Bond says patiently, "You are grumbling."

"We are British," Q informs him. "Grumbling is a national pastime. How can you be all for the Queen and country and not know that?"

"I guess some of us show patriotism in other ways," Bond says. He takes the flask back and takes a swig himself, settling in further into the seat.

"You could've been spared from all this," Q says morosely.

"Then who would've been here for you?" Bond says, all sincere concern and warm blue eyes.

"Let's not get started on that," Q mutters. "I'm honestly not sure if you made this better or worse."

"Would you prefer to be bridal carried by M instead?" Bond asks, and he's laughing inside, that tosser, Q knows it.

"Hand me the flask," Q says, annoyed, and settles in for the long ride.

"Conflict resolution in the work place," the presenter announces upon the third hour. His never ending enthusiasm is really getting on Q's nerves. "How would you solve a work place _struggle_? A _snit_ among colleagues? A _scuffle_? _Skirmish_ , even? Are there any more words beginning with s we can think of in this context?"

"Stupid," Q mutters.

"No? Pity, I think I've run out too," the presenter scratches his chin. "So we need a volunteer again." he scans the audience, then lights up. "Ah, the director! The famous M."

"Oh, this is going to be good," Bond says, sitting up. Q claws for the flask but Bond is keeping it casually out of reach with a kind of effortless absentmindedness that only a field agent can have, and Q gives him the stink eye.

"Some people just want to watch the world burn."

"You and me both," Bond says, and the offhand comment is so hilariously accurate that Q feels a sense of inappropriate camaraderie bloom in his chest.

"Here he goes," Bond says, and sure enough, M is walking slowly and stiffly on stage, like someone who's about to receive a Gold Raspberry Award.

"M," the presenter says, "How would you resolve a workplace spat? Aha, there it is, another one, _spat!_ "

Slowly, M leans towards the microphone, and says with all the gravitas of a priest, "I tell them to both fuck off."

Q claps wildly in his seat and whoops, catches himself, then turns to Bond. "What was in the flask?"

"Absinthe," Bond says easily. "I see it's working."

"Fuck off," Q says. "I know what Absinthe tastes like. That isn't it."

"Do you now?" Bond is eyeing him with renewed interest, and Q's warm, under-influence mind is actually finding that a little hot, which, bit not good.

"Perhaps we shouldn't ask someone with so much absolute power," the presenter says, showing the first sign of nervousness as M walks back to his seat. "Anyone else…?" His eyes land on Tanner.

"Ah, no," Tanner says, immediately appearing flustered. "I'm uh. I'm just. I have no power. I uh, I carry paper mostly. And um. Sandwiches. To M."

"He's _good_ ," Bond says.

As if Tanner's acting skills isn't good enough on its own, M aids and abets by nodding precisely and deliberately once. The presenter promptly deflates.

"Now I want some crisps," Q says with a healthy amount of malicious glee. "This is going _so well_."

On cue, the presenter perks up again. "Department heads," he announces, scanning around. "Where are you lot? You are all required to be here, so I know there's at least some of you around!"

Q's face darkens. "If you raise your hand now, 007, I swear to M — "

"I'm too professional for that," Bond says. "Your minions, however, could do with some training on how to deflect subtle interrogative questions."

"Oh for — Who looked at me?" Q says, "007, I want you to take their names. I want them fired by the end of the day."

"I think you are mistaking me with Tessa from HR," Bond says pleasantly. "Unless you mean you want them killed?"

Q glares at him. "Don't even," he says, just as the presenter goes, "The department head of Technologies! My my! The famous Q branch!"

Q reluctantly stands up.

"Oh, wow, it's you again." The presenter looks mildly surprised. "Must be a genius to be a departmental head at such a young age, huh?"

"Not genius enough to avoid this," Q mutters darkly.

Bond gives him a swat on the arse — a swat on the arse! "Go on then, get on stage."

"No, I'll be growing roots right here, ta very much."

The presenter isn't deterred; he actually jogs down from the stage and hands Q a microphone, which Q regards with the kind of distaste he usually reserves only for cold tea.

"So!" The presenter says happily, "How would you, as a department head, solve a workplace conflict?"

Everyone turns around to look at Q. Q wants to curl into himself and explode, possibly.

"What kind?" he says, after a minute.

"Sorry?" The presenter says, cupping his ear.

"I said, what kind of conflict?" Q says, adopting a good old fuck-all attitude now. "On the scale of turning every traffic lights red for his commute to wipe his entire existence from the face of earth, what kind of conflict are we talking about?"

The presenter stares. "Uh — I don't think this is — That's not the right kind of attitude towards conflict resolution," he says.

"No?" Q says flatly. "Well, don't piss us off, then. Q branch looks after its own."

Again with the slow clapping, this time coming from Q's right hand side. "Oh, shut up," Q says, glancing down to a smirking Bond. "You'd know what I'm talking about."

Bond drags Q's hand down and speaks to the microphone: "I do."

"What are you looking so scandalised for?" Q demands, irritated. The presenter looks like he's eaten something raw and it's still fighting its way down his oesophagus. "He's still here, isn't he?" Q throws the microphone down to the row in front of him and sits down again, huffily. "Although for how long, I can't say."

"Now now. I thought we were starting to like each other," Bond says, and he has the audacity to drape an arm over Q's chair.

"I wouldn't go that far," Q gripes, but curls into the back of his chair anyway.

* * *

"I wish I can make your balls explode," Q says.

"You need to work on your dirty talk, darling," Bond says lazily. "Also, do you realise how inappropriate it is at this moment?"

"I don't fucking care. He can't make me go on stage for a fucking sexual harassment demonstration. Why am I even being asked? I've never even sent a lewd glance to anyone."

"You'd better get on stage," Bond advises helpfully, entirely oblivious to Q's pain. "Unless you want him to also demonstrate the proper way to manually handle someone under protest."

"And Mr. Bond!" The presenter booms. "Come, come. Sit in the front row. I want you to hear this."

Bond sighs as he stands up. Adjusting his suit, he asks casually:

"How far are we away from that explosion of yours?"

Q gives him a dirty look and drags his feet onto the stage, while Bond joins M at the front row.

"Now, young head of Q branch — what's your name?" the presenter says, as if remembering for the first time he hasn't yet asked.

"Q", Q says stoically.

The presenter waits politely for a second, then, "Q for that? Quintus? Quentin? Quebec?"

Q turns and stares at him, very, very calmly.

"Right, just Q," the presenter gulps.

From the corner of his eye, Q can see Bond starting to enjoy this, so he turns his stare towards the audience, until the presenter asks,

"How do you feel being a victim of sexual harassment?"

Q's glare snaps back so quick that his eyeballs briefly hurt.

"I'm a what," he says, flat.

"A victim," the presenter repeats. "You and Mr. Bond here — "

Bond's smirk freezes and he looks vaguely torn between being scandalised and amused.

"— there is clearly a mismatch in power," the presenter plows on. "You said you two were just colleagues, while Mr. Bond insinuated that you two were friends, perhaps more — "

"It's that obvious, is it," Q says under his breath, glaring at Bond all the while.

"Yet he didn't ask you for your permission before touching you and _sweeping_ you off your feet — "

"I was called up as a volunteer!" Bond protests, looking around.

M looks like he's about to start clapping again.

"From the way you interact, as I've been watching you this whole time," the presenter grins, a sharp, self-satisfied grin, "yes, the whole time — I think he's made more than one advances that's unwelcome."

"Um," Q says.

"Now, I understand." The presenter says soothingly. "You are clearly powerless against someone like Mr. Bond."

" _Excuse_ _me_?" Q says, indignant.

The presenter pauses, and he opens his palm upward in classic pacifying gesture.

"Well, he's a field agent," the presenter says. "and you are just a tech."

Q bristles and sees red so fast that the next words out of the guy's mouth merely registers as background noise.

"Now you might be a department head and outranks — " the presenter stumbles to one side as Q snatches the microphone from his hands. "What are you doing?"

With lightening speed, Q opens up the microphone, dislodges something inside, flips it back in, closes the lid, and hands it back to the presenter. "Here."

The presenter stares at him dumbly. "What was that?"

Q shrugs.

The presenter continues to stare at him for a few more seconds, then tapped the microphone. "Oh, it's not working. You broke it."

"Mmm. I don't think so," Q says lightly. "Have you tried turning it off and on again?"

The presenter goes for the switch, and _pop_! A small ray of blue electrical charge cracks, making him yell out in pain and surprise.

"Don't look at me," Q says, innocent. "I'm just a tech."

This time, Q looks up and everyone is slow clapping, Bond and M and Tanner and the accountants from HR and his trusting minions, so Q decides to let them all have a good credit history for another day.

* * *

After that clusterfuck they break up for lunch, with the presenter weakly mentioning something about team building for the afternoon. Q has a flash of a mental picture where he is falling backwards into Bond's open arms, and promptly decides he needs to spike the punch.

Bond and Tanner beats to him though: when Q gets to the punch bowl, it is already smelling so strongly of alcohol that it's attracting attention.

"Yes," Q says, "Gimme a hearty dollop in my earl grey, please."

"Spiking your favourite tea?" Bond teases, pulling out another flask — how many of these has he got, really? "Isn't that blasphemy or something?"

"Not when it's an emergency diplomatic intervention," Q gripes. "God, I'm so trigger happy right now you have no idea."

"No, we did," Tanner says. "That's why Bond is here."

"To annoy me?" Q says, looking at Tanner sideways. "I thought better of you, Tanner."

"To keep an eye on you," Tanner says. "From blowing up and caving the entire floor."

Bond shrugs. "Geniuses have very low tolerance for fools," he says by way of explanation. "Even though showing up for an event like this when you didn't have to was pretty foolish, I'd say."

"Some of us have _choices_ ," Tanner says, staring at Q with a sad but somehow composed expression that makes Q feel more like an idiot than he already is.

"It said _compulsory_ ," Q says desperately. "They said my annual budget depended on it!"

Both Bond and Tanner looks at him with so much pity that Q wants to stab himself in the eye with a fruit fork.

"Well I hope you choke on your little finger sandwich," Q says venomously. "Excuse me. I need to leave."

"They have the building on lockdown," Tanner says, bouncing an apple in his hand for its water content, probably. "Something to do with this afternoon's team building exercise."

"Well then, excuse me while I blow the fire exit wide open," Q turns, and promptly runs into M.

"If you do that," M says serenely, "It'd have to come out of your annual budget." He pours himself a liberal helping of the punch and downs it in one go.

Q can't help but stares.

"Can I at least blow the spotlight on the ceiling?" Q begs, feeling liquid courage that he'll probably regret in a moment's time. "It'll give us like, fifteen minutes of peace. _Please_."

M doesn't answer, but instead scrutinises a egg cress sandwich very carefully. Tanner chews on the apple. Q is desperate.

Bond clears his throat. "Well, we can always go for the bathroom."

Q turns to glare at Bond in what he hopes is a clear message of ' _not now, you prick_ ,' and actually thinks he's started hallucinating when M says,

"Yes, that's always an option."

Even Tanner nods slowly, and Q is really starting to get worried. "What did you put in the punch?" he whispers.

Then, honest to god, Bond barks a laugh. "I like the way your mind works," he says, warm and seductive and crinkly in corners, "But no. I was referring to the vent on the bathroom ceilings."

Flushing furiously, Q thinks back to the building schematics. "Oh. _Oh._ "

"Autumns are dry down here," M says, as he carefully puts the sandwich on his plate. "It would be a shame if the sprinklers started going off just when we are finishing lunch."

"A real shame," Bond agrees.

Q's eyes brighten up and he promptly comes alive. "The sprinklers are connected to the hydraulics system outside — oh, I can make it a _downpour_ — "

"Let's not get carried away now," Bond says, vaguely amused.

"A fucking _waterfall_ — "

"I'm serious. I haven't bought a change of clothes."

But Q is already off is his own calculations, walking backwards in the general direction of the bathroom. Several seconds later, he stops and blinks annoyedly. "What are you waiting for, 007? Come with me and give me a leg up."

Bond mock salutes M as he follows. "I live to serve," he says.

* * *

"Honestly, Bond, stop pinching my arse."

"It's kind of a part of the job description right now."

"Well you are not doing it right. A little to the left — higher, no, the other left, dammit, push me harder! I can't reach it!"

"I wish you can hear yourself, because that's what she said."

"Fuck you."

"A delightful invitation, but not while you are sitting on my head."

"I can and I will also burst some pipes pointing right at you until you are covered in nothing but sewage water and grime, don't even think I won't do it."

* * *

Afterwards, when everyone is gathered outside and the inside of the building is raining cats and dogs, the presenter appears on a makeshift box stand and cups his hand around his mouth.

"I'm sorry about this," he says, looking dejected and irritated, something dubiously yellow and gooey hanging off the side of his head. "We could've continued this outside and made this unfortunate turn of events into an impromptu team building exercise, but I'm afraid duty calls and I need to be back in my office. So I'm sorry. I think we have to call it a day. It's been — "

The rest of his words drown in the sound of enthusiastic clappings and cheers, and the already thin crowd disperses faster than someone can say M.

"Thank god he had a thing at the office," Q says, favourite scrabble mug in hand and hot steam rising from it. "For a moment there I thought I was going to have to change weather patterns to get him to stop."

"You'd do it too," Bond says. It isn't a question.

"Of course I would," Q says. "And next time, don't even think that an invitation about this kind of event can even _enter_ our mail server." He stretches, then catches something from the corner of his eye.

"Moneypenny!"

Moneypenny saunters close and winks at them. "Hello boys," she says pleasantly. "Have a good day so far?"

"The worst, but it's starting to look better," Q says. "Where have you been? Wait, don't answer. You were clever enough to duck out of this, clearly."

"Mmm. I certainly know about your morning," Moneypenny says breezily. "Which is why I was away engineering a minor crisis in the civil service, which incidentally, means our lovely symposium convener has to run back to his office for the rest of the day."

M chooses to wander over at this point, soaked vest in one arm and holding out a hand.

"Well done everyone," he says, shaking them each by turn. "Excellent team building effort."

Q looks at M's solemn retreating back and huffs a happy sigh. "I'm in love with this workplace," he says a little dreamily.

Bond leans towards him and grins pointedly.

"Jesus, don't get any ideas," Q says, handing the mug to Bond and starting back inside. "You are still only getting a bubble gun for your next mission. You are going somewhere with a large body of water, aren't you? I'll see if I can make your gun shoot bubbles of oxygen… don't laugh, it's not that ridiculous..."

"I feel the same about you too, Q," Bond murmurs, warm and light and crinkly in the corners and the sound scratches at Q's chest making him all itchy, and Q smiles.

"Tosser."

END


End file.
